I have many guilty pleasures when it comes to TV. Two of them are Glee and Grey's Anatomy. I'm well aware that both these shows 'jumped the shark' years ago. They are formulaic and melodramatic. I'm also fairly certain they are not age-appropriate for the folks who, I assume, comprise a fairly large chunk of their audience - teenage girls.
But I watched them back when they were pretty decent shows, and it just feels wrong to abandon them now that we've come this far. I hope they both die a gracious death soon - not desperately clinging to irrelevance and ever-increasingly bizarre inanity, like two other shows I once guiltily watched, Lost and Alias.
Anyway, assuming that they both still garner a fairly high Nielsen rating - and, thus, people like me and the people I serve with might occasionally watch them - I want to reflect on a recent disturbing story line in both of them. It's an old, old story line (historically old), and while it still holds sway among many faithful Christian folks, I find it more than a little objectionable.
It is the story line that reduces the essence of Christian faith and life to the question of "to do it, or not to do it."
Recently, both these shows have characters who are the most publicly identified people of Christian faith (one male and one female), who have made a vow to Jesus not to have sex before marriage. This vow - not uncommon among people of all ages, but especially among so-called "Evangelical" Christian teenagers - becomes hard to keep when 'ye olde flesh' acts up.
In both shows, within the span of a few short weeks, these characters have made it abundantly clear that to be Christian means to abstain from sex before marriage - and to indulge is, literally, to "lose your faith" or to "break a promise to Jesus."
Don't get me wrong. I do not encourage people, especially teenagers, to have sex before marriage. A healthy debate can occur about what healthy and holy sexuality can and should look like among people who are old enough to want to but who (for any number of reasons) are not yet (and may never be allowed to, or desire to be) married.
That's not the debate I'm interested in right now. Maybe another day. Suffice it to say I am uncomfortable (to say the least) with the hypersexualized culture in which we live - especially as it targets and implicates people at a younger and younger age each year. Especially now that I'm the proud parent of two kids of two different genders, I am not just uncomfortable, I'm terrified about what a "normal" sexual life will look like when my kids are becoming adolescents.
So yeah: I don't want our teenagers having sex any more than you do. And even when they're "adults," I believe - for many reasons, religious and otherwise - that sexuality in its fullness is best expressed within the context of a committed, monogamous, publicly-accountable relationship.
(I'm also well aware that the vast majority of sexual activity does not occur in that context, and I believe it behooves us as a church to live meaningfully within the world as it actually is... but that's a post for another day.)
Be that as it may, I'm convinced there is vast room for diversity of opinion within the Christian family when it comes to the sticky wickets of pre-/extra-marital sexuality, contraception, abortion, sexual identity, etc. What bothers me about these two shows (other than the fact that they currently suck) is the dangerous reduction of the Christian faith that they present in these two sexually conflicted characters.
In short: The boundaries of "faithful" Christian life are in no way, shape, or form determined by a person's decision to engage, or not, in sexual activity outside the context of a legally-recognized relationship. Jesus is not nearly as obsessed with your sex life as our culture would lead you to believe.
This is the kind of reductive thinking that turns Jesus into a hapless pawn in any number of culture war battles. And while we may be able to extrapolate some basic, shared values about Christian sexual ethics from the life and teachings of Jesus (mercy, justice, and faithfulness come to mind...), let us agree that Jesus did not die in order to scare our children into abstinence.
Many faithful Christian people have made so-called "purity pledges" - with mixed results. And while I'm hesitant, for many reasons, to encourage that myself, I in no way mean to dismiss them as "bad" Christians. They're doing their best, just like me (sometimes). I simply discourage the temptation to set these faithful folk apart as "better" Christians than folks who make other choices about coming to terms with sexual identity and activity before marriage.
When we promulgate this kind of reductive thinking, we not only set many of our kids up for failure, guilt, and shame - but we also (and perhaps more importantly) dislocate the power and promise of the Christian narrative. Christianity is not a purity cult (any faithful reading of the gospels reveals that). Christian life is witnessing to the world-changing love of Jesus Christ, poured out - even unto death - so that all of creation might enjoy abundant and eternal life.
So yes, we should talk to our kids about sex. But we are the ones who should talk about it - employing conviction, experience, science, and love - and for the most part, leave Jesus out of it. Except, perhaps, to say this:
"You will have to make many difficult choices as you grow up. Those choices can have wonderful and terrible consequences, and you should be prepared to live with them. But know this: whatever choices you make, Jesus will still love you, choose you, forgive you when you need it, and stick with you - and so will I. Whether we're all overjoyed or disappointed, nothing you do or don't do will change how Jesus feels about you - and the same goes for me."
I wish someone would have told that to Dr April Kepner. Maybe then she would have passed her boards and given us all one less annoying story line to endure.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
So... What???
Last week, I started this blog. I feel like it's something akin to my grandmother purchasing her first CD player in 2004... around the time that those little plastic (they are plastic, right?) discs started to become obsolete in the era of iTunes and mp3s.
Since then, I've written 3 posts... which are saved in my "drafts." They're about "sex," "marriage," and "socialism." In them, I attempt to be faithful to my values, conviction, and calling - and, to be aware of how they would be received by the people among whom I am privileged to worship from week to week.
I haven't posted any of them. There are two reasons for this:
1. A person very dear to my life/heart said, "You've started a blog, eh? That everyone from church can read, eh?......... be careful." This feedback is, in part, because an article I wrote in our church newsletter two years ago (who actually reads those things, anyway???) ended up being discussed "on air" by a local uber-conservative talk-radio host. That didn't go well. (I still stand by what I wrote, but in retrospect, it probably wasn't the best use of ink.)
2. I'm verbose. Combine that with wanting to be careful, and you end up with very long blog posts with far too many dependent clauses, parenthetical explanations, and disclaimers. Who wants to read that?
So while I'm fairly sure I'll end up posting those eventually (I'm sure the 2 people who will read this are waiting with baited breath), I thought I'd start with a more in-depth description of the place in which I'm privileged to serve as pastor.
First off, a reminder that everything I write here is representative of my thoughts alone. I do not speak on behalf of the congregation, or the denomination - and surely not on behalf of the God I worship.
Grace is a wonderful place. We've got our struggles like everyone else - money comes and goes, the community is aging and the school-aged population is shrinking, we've had a fair amount of conflict in the past decade or so... these things make for perennial struggles not uncommon to small denominational "mainline" congregations.
But we have some amazing people, from every generation. Some of those amazing people are Republicans - active in politics and not shy about sharing their views on Facebook or in local parades. Indeed, one of the state's most conservative senators grew up at Grace, and his father is still a member (very active, and a real pleasure to have in Bible study and worship). Some of the most compassionate, engaged, and trustworthy folks are people with whom I share almost no political common ground.
We are also a Reconciling in Christ (RIC) congregation, meaning we welcome and rejoice in the participation of people of all sexual orientations and gender identities. We have very active Democrats and people who are equally willing to share their liberal political perspectives on any number of issues.
Some of each of those groups regularly eat brunch together after worship on Sundays. They all come to the Table on Sunday morning. They serve, welcome, and reach out - together.
I get obnoxious political e-mail forwards from folks on all sides of the political spectrum. (I don't respond to any of them unless asked directly to do so, and my response is usually something like, "Sorry I didn't respond; I don't typically find those forwards to be helpful contributions to public discourse...")
Racially and ethnically, we fairly well represent our community - which means we're virtually 100% white and relatively affluent. However, we have many members who are struggling financially - some visibly so, most in the invisible manner of many suburban folks who struggle to keep up with a lifestyle that is not very reliable or sustainable in the current economic climate. We have people who have been, or are currently, unemployed. We have folks who struggle with substance abuse, who are raising kids with disabilities, whose bodies are falling apart...
In short, it's a small corner of the Body of Christ. And it is a joy to serve in the midst of it.
The political anxieties and paranoia that so plague public discourse these days are real and palpable among our folk. A couple months ago, the Synod asked us to host a conversation (mandated by the Synod Assembly) on how faithful Lutherans can/should respond to the fierce debate over workers' rights and public employee unions. The mere thought of hosting the conversation (let alone advocating on one side or the other) made for a long week of phone calls and e-mails, wondering what on earth we were getting ourselves into and why.
So yeah, I'm a bit nervous about plunging into the fray with an easily-reproducible medium in which I express feelings/opinions (again, entirely my own) that might stir up discontent.
But more important than my own self-preservation, I want to avoid any hint of a suggestion that the dignity and worth, faithfulness or righteousness of any of the folks in my congregation (or the Christian community at large) is somehow dependent upon our ability to agree or not on any given subject.
Just yesterday I had a wonderful conversation with one of the most consistently conservative people in this congregation about the reality of hell and the rightness of same-gender marriage (the two topics are, I pray, disconnected in both of our minds). We don't agree on either of those questions - at all. But I golf with this guy (he consistently beats me). I honestly love him; every time he walks in the door, I am blessed to heartily greet him. He's really funny - and has immense wisdom to share. He's a veteran, and I honor his sacrifice and mourn for what he lost in the war (his brother died in WWII). He's another good, good man with whom I regularly share the Means of Grace.
And his place in the Body of Christ, his status as a child of God, his worth and dignity as a fellow sinner and saint in this community are in no way jeopardized by the fact that I personally believe he is wrong on a variety of questions of social, political, and theological significance.
I know that doesn't sound very "radical." I imagine we all theoretically embrace that concept (I hope so, anyway) when it's written or spoken aloud. But in this age of vitriol and nonsense, I know I have personally felt like my status as a Christian has been called into question because of any number of my political preferences or theological perspectives. And no corner of the political/theological spectrum has the monopoly on that kind of degrading insinuation.
So... that's why I'm hesitant. But the gift of that hesitation is patience and thoughtfulness. I parse every word and phrase to be sure that I'm not unnecessarily offending people of good faith with whom I happen to disagree. That's not to say that I won't occasionally write things that are offensive - sometimes unintentionally, sometimes because the truth as I understand it can be offensive to folks who hold to radically different versions of the truth.
But what I lack in timeliness and trendiness I hope I gain in thoughtfulness and patience. I earnestly believe the Body is big enough to embrace all kinds of folk. All kinds. Even Republicans.
And that's something I never would have been able to say when I was a teenager. And thanks be to God for growth.
Since then, I've written 3 posts... which are saved in my "drafts." They're about "sex," "marriage," and "socialism." In them, I attempt to be faithful to my values, conviction, and calling - and, to be aware of how they would be received by the people among whom I am privileged to worship from week to week.
I haven't posted any of them. There are two reasons for this:
1. A person very dear to my life/heart said, "You've started a blog, eh? That everyone from church can read, eh?......... be careful." This feedback is, in part, because an article I wrote in our church newsletter two years ago (who actually reads those things, anyway???) ended up being discussed "on air" by a local uber-conservative talk-radio host. That didn't go well. (I still stand by what I wrote, but in retrospect, it probably wasn't the best use of ink.)
2. I'm verbose. Combine that with wanting to be careful, and you end up with very long blog posts with far too many dependent clauses, parenthetical explanations, and disclaimers. Who wants to read that?
So while I'm fairly sure I'll end up posting those eventually (I'm sure the 2 people who will read this are waiting with baited breath), I thought I'd start with a more in-depth description of the place in which I'm privileged to serve as pastor.
First off, a reminder that everything I write here is representative of my thoughts alone. I do not speak on behalf of the congregation, or the denomination - and surely not on behalf of the God I worship.
Grace is a wonderful place. We've got our struggles like everyone else - money comes and goes, the community is aging and the school-aged population is shrinking, we've had a fair amount of conflict in the past decade or so... these things make for perennial struggles not uncommon to small denominational "mainline" congregations.
But we have some amazing people, from every generation. Some of those amazing people are Republicans - active in politics and not shy about sharing their views on Facebook or in local parades. Indeed, one of the state's most conservative senators grew up at Grace, and his father is still a member (very active, and a real pleasure to have in Bible study and worship). Some of the most compassionate, engaged, and trustworthy folks are people with whom I share almost no political common ground.
We are also a Reconciling in Christ (RIC) congregation, meaning we welcome and rejoice in the participation of people of all sexual orientations and gender identities. We have very active Democrats and people who are equally willing to share their liberal political perspectives on any number of issues.
Some of each of those groups regularly eat brunch together after worship on Sundays. They all come to the Table on Sunday morning. They serve, welcome, and reach out - together.
I get obnoxious political e-mail forwards from folks on all sides of the political spectrum. (I don't respond to any of them unless asked directly to do so, and my response is usually something like, "Sorry I didn't respond; I don't typically find those forwards to be helpful contributions to public discourse...")
Racially and ethnically, we fairly well represent our community - which means we're virtually 100% white and relatively affluent. However, we have many members who are struggling financially - some visibly so, most in the invisible manner of many suburban folks who struggle to keep up with a lifestyle that is not very reliable or sustainable in the current economic climate. We have people who have been, or are currently, unemployed. We have folks who struggle with substance abuse, who are raising kids with disabilities, whose bodies are falling apart...
In short, it's a small corner of the Body of Christ. And it is a joy to serve in the midst of it.
The political anxieties and paranoia that so plague public discourse these days are real and palpable among our folk. A couple months ago, the Synod asked us to host a conversation (mandated by the Synod Assembly) on how faithful Lutherans can/should respond to the fierce debate over workers' rights and public employee unions. The mere thought of hosting the conversation (let alone advocating on one side or the other) made for a long week of phone calls and e-mails, wondering what on earth we were getting ourselves into and why.
So yeah, I'm a bit nervous about plunging into the fray with an easily-reproducible medium in which I express feelings/opinions (again, entirely my own) that might stir up discontent.
But more important than my own self-preservation, I want to avoid any hint of a suggestion that the dignity and worth, faithfulness or righteousness of any of the folks in my congregation (or the Christian community at large) is somehow dependent upon our ability to agree or not on any given subject.
Just yesterday I had a wonderful conversation with one of the most consistently conservative people in this congregation about the reality of hell and the rightness of same-gender marriage (the two topics are, I pray, disconnected in both of our minds). We don't agree on either of those questions - at all. But I golf with this guy (he consistently beats me). I honestly love him; every time he walks in the door, I am blessed to heartily greet him. He's really funny - and has immense wisdom to share. He's a veteran, and I honor his sacrifice and mourn for what he lost in the war (his brother died in WWII). He's another good, good man with whom I regularly share the Means of Grace.
And his place in the Body of Christ, his status as a child of God, his worth and dignity as a fellow sinner and saint in this community are in no way jeopardized by the fact that I personally believe he is wrong on a variety of questions of social, political, and theological significance.
I know that doesn't sound very "radical." I imagine we all theoretically embrace that concept (I hope so, anyway) when it's written or spoken aloud. But in this age of vitriol and nonsense, I know I have personally felt like my status as a Christian has been called into question because of any number of my political preferences or theological perspectives. And no corner of the political/theological spectrum has the monopoly on that kind of degrading insinuation.
So... that's why I'm hesitant. But the gift of that hesitation is patience and thoughtfulness. I parse every word and phrase to be sure that I'm not unnecessarily offending people of good faith with whom I happen to disagree. That's not to say that I won't occasionally write things that are offensive - sometimes unintentionally, sometimes because the truth as I understand it can be offensive to folks who hold to radically different versions of the truth.
But what I lack in timeliness and trendiness I hope I gain in thoughtfulness and patience. I earnestly believe the Body is big enough to embrace all kinds of folk. All kinds. Even Republicans.
And that's something I never would have been able to say when I was a teenager. And thanks be to God for growth.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
First Things
I'm just getting back into the tech world after flirting with it a while back. I'm inspired by lots of colleagues and friends who do this far better than I do. I've recently re-activated my Facebook-life, and yesterday signed up for Twitter. Facebook I can handle; I'm not the best at it, but it's growing on me.
Twitter is another story. I'm having some technical difficulties with "following" people. (I'm having some theological difficulties with it, too... but that's pretty normal for me.)
The main problem: 140 characters. Seriously? I'm a preacher by trade, a debater by avocation, and an essayist by style. Economy of words has never been my gift. Besides, I find that anything I'd want to comment on in the Twitter-verse (or is it a "sphere"?) is too complex for 140 characters.
Some of it is about controversy. I'm a public leader in an ideologically diverse community. I've often gotten into "trouble" by commenting on a matter of religious/spiritual/theological and/or political/economic import in a manner unbecoming to my role as a pastor/preacher. Some of that is due to hypersensitivity on the part of the listener/reader... but mostly it's due to the fact that when I do practice "economy" of language, it's often flippant or sarcastic.
So, if I'm going to use Twitter, I will have to learn how to choose words even more wisely than I'm learning to do. Or, I will fill my feed with nothing but meaningless drivel about what I'm eating or the shows I'm watching (I'll probably do that), or cute pictures and snippets of joy from my life as a father of two beautiful little ones (that will surely happen, too). And, of course, shameless links to sermon recordings.
Then I realized that I'm not alone. Many of my friends/colleagues use Twitter to redirect to longer blog postings - which probably cuts down on readership, but it does allow for more thoughtful discussion. Hence, I'm now the proud owner of a free blog - like every other person who is deluded enough to think I have something meaningful to say to the electronic community.
If this goes well (and judging from my experience in the past, I'm doubtful that it will), here's what I hope to accomplish with this blog:
I'm slowly learning what it means in a public/political/religious sense to be "simul justus et pecator" - Luther's famous reduction of the anthropology of the baptized: 100% saint and 100% sinner, all the time. In my personal life, this has always been clear to me: I do not do what I know I should do; I do what I should not do; by God's grace I am forgiven and (occasionally) equipped by the Spirit to actually do something good and holy with my time.
In a public sense, though, what this means for me is this: I wish I lived in a world that is simple enough for me to be an ideological purist. I used to believe I lived in that world. In high school, I was (in)famous for having a (I thought) well-informed opinion about everything. And I would share it, in writing and speech, at every opportunity, with doctrinal clarity and the force of unbridled passion.
This worked well. My friend group clustered around shared ideologies - or, in some holy instances, people who were equally doctrinaire and had the verbal and emotional fortitude to spit it right back. I wore it as a badge of honor that everyone knew what I thought about everything. Every social, political, or theological issue - I had a settled, logically infallible (:)), and forceful opinion. Take it or leave it.
This is, for the most part, still pretty much the case. I still have an opinion about everything, and I'm prideful enough to think that I'm mostly right - and well-justified. What's changed is that I am much more hesitant to share those opinions - and definitely with much less force and certitude.
Why? The nagging self of my childhood ideological purity tells me that I've "sold out." For fear of losing my job, I keep my opinions to myself, not wanting to alienate any of the people I am in ministry with who happen to disagree with me on any number of things.
That's the same nagging self that projects this fear onto people like President Obama, who I consistently deride for what I see as an all-too politically-motivated inclination to compromise (I'll blog about yesterday's same-sex marriage declaration later). Grow a backbone, brother!
But the reality is much deeper and truer than that - and far more complex than 140 characters could summarize.
1) I might, in fact, occasionally be wrong. (Actually, I often am.) This is shocking to me, as one who has always believed that I have all the right answers. But in all things - from theodicy (the reality of evil in a world held in the powerful hands of a loving God) to economics (what role does government play in assuring that all people have access to daily bread?) - I have discovered a capacity to grow and evolve in my thinking. Rabbi Michael Lerner once said that the key to religious leadership is to understand the difference between certainty and commitment. I can be 100% committed to a perspective (same-gender marriage, for example); but whenever we claim 100% certainty about anything, we are entering into dangerous territory. That's where fundamentalists rear their nasty heads (and lo, they are abundant on all sides of every issue). That's where political systems become intractable cesspools of unclear thinking lobbed with vile certainty like grenades across the aisle. Complexity of thought, intellectual honesty, and empathy are regarded as cardinal sins in the world of FoxNews and MSNBC (both of which I detest, btw); I'm convinced, however, that life is more complicated than Twitter allows.
2) Even when I am right - or I'm pretty close to being certain that I am - that does not negate the dignity and personhood of people with whom I disagree. And, more importantly, there are things about which I am virtually certain, but there are places and people among whom it is meaningless to be right. And to constantly reduce life and people to ideological checklists is to vastly oversimplify the beauty and brokenness of real human life. And - ! - one can actually learn from people who think differently, even if an opinion remains unchanged.
In the past years, especially since beginning a second call in a radically different context than my first one, my respect and admiration for the apostle Paul has grown by leaps and bounds. (I, like most "liberal" Christians, used to detest Paul, but straw-men are easy to detest. I'll probably write about that some other time...) Suffice it to say, here was a guy who knew what it was to struggle with doing and being good when it's so damn hard to follow through; who knew how to parse out what is essential from what is non-essential (and yet to fail to do so more often than not); who knew what bear to poke and which to leave alone (and yet he failed at that from time to time, too). Most importantly, he knew the limits of his (and all) human wisdom, and endeavored to know nothing except for Jesus Christ - and him crucified - as the one thing that holds this mysterious communion together, even when we disagree.
This struggle has become most clear to me in pastoral care. I was once privileged to preside over the funeral of a man who was at times crusty and crotchety, and at others gentle and thoughtful. He loved his wife and missed her dearly. He had struggled for success in a suburban context and had failed to achieve more often than he was able to admit. He agonized over the decision to stop receiving treatment for cancer, engaging both pastors with deep searching questions about whether this qualified as suicide or not - and whether God could forgive him. He went to Bible study, he loved devotional books, and he longed to receive Communion as often as he could. He loved his kids but missed them and thought they could visit more often than they did. He had great stories about his time in Europe in the service of his country. He was a good man - if there is such a thing.
He also selected his hospice care company on the sole criterion that they would never assign him a staff member who was a "person of color" (not the terminology he chose...). And he exclusively watched Fox News to learn about the world that existed beyond the confines of his assisted living facility, from which he could scarcely escape.
Based on that last paragraph, every fiber of my ideologically pure self would want nothing to do with this man. We would not attend dinner parties together. I would publicly make fun of his "simple" and "reactionary" worldview. This is not my kind of person.
But he was, by God's grace, exactly my kind of person. A sinner (like me) washed into the Body (like me) who struggled to live a holy and faithful life in a complex world (like me). Was he wrong? You bet - often. Have I ever been? You bet - often. But would my life be diminished had I never had the privilege of sharing Holy Communion with him - and joining his fellow saints and sinners in carrying him to the grave? Absolutely.
So this blog is an attempt to muse on the news with some measure of complexity and compassion - even though I will certainly be wrong 90% of the time (except, of course, when posting laudatory things about my children; they're every bit as wonderful as I say they are - and probably more so).
So that's a bit about me and what I'm up to.
Peace,
pj
Twitter is another story. I'm having some technical difficulties with "following" people. (I'm having some theological difficulties with it, too... but that's pretty normal for me.)
The main problem: 140 characters. Seriously? I'm a preacher by trade, a debater by avocation, and an essayist by style. Economy of words has never been my gift. Besides, I find that anything I'd want to comment on in the Twitter-verse (or is it a "sphere"?) is too complex for 140 characters.
Some of it is about controversy. I'm a public leader in an ideologically diverse community. I've often gotten into "trouble" by commenting on a matter of religious/spiritual/theological and/or political/economic import in a manner unbecoming to my role as a pastor/preacher. Some of that is due to hypersensitivity on the part of the listener/reader... but mostly it's due to the fact that when I do practice "economy" of language, it's often flippant or sarcastic.
So, if I'm going to use Twitter, I will have to learn how to choose words even more wisely than I'm learning to do. Or, I will fill my feed with nothing but meaningless drivel about what I'm eating or the shows I'm watching (I'll probably do that), or cute pictures and snippets of joy from my life as a father of two beautiful little ones (that will surely happen, too). And, of course, shameless links to sermon recordings.
Then I realized that I'm not alone. Many of my friends/colleagues use Twitter to redirect to longer blog postings - which probably cuts down on readership, but it does allow for more thoughtful discussion. Hence, I'm now the proud owner of a free blog - like every other person who is deluded enough to think I have something meaningful to say to the electronic community.
If this goes well (and judging from my experience in the past, I'm doubtful that it will), here's what I hope to accomplish with this blog:
I'm slowly learning what it means in a public/political/religious sense to be "simul justus et pecator" - Luther's famous reduction of the anthropology of the baptized: 100% saint and 100% sinner, all the time. In my personal life, this has always been clear to me: I do not do what I know I should do; I do what I should not do; by God's grace I am forgiven and (occasionally) equipped by the Spirit to actually do something good and holy with my time.
In a public sense, though, what this means for me is this: I wish I lived in a world that is simple enough for me to be an ideological purist. I used to believe I lived in that world. In high school, I was (in)famous for having a (I thought) well-informed opinion about everything. And I would share it, in writing and speech, at every opportunity, with doctrinal clarity and the force of unbridled passion.
This worked well. My friend group clustered around shared ideologies - or, in some holy instances, people who were equally doctrinaire and had the verbal and emotional fortitude to spit it right back. I wore it as a badge of honor that everyone knew what I thought about everything. Every social, political, or theological issue - I had a settled, logically infallible (:)), and forceful opinion. Take it or leave it.
This is, for the most part, still pretty much the case. I still have an opinion about everything, and I'm prideful enough to think that I'm mostly right - and well-justified. What's changed is that I am much more hesitant to share those opinions - and definitely with much less force and certitude.
Why? The nagging self of my childhood ideological purity tells me that I've "sold out." For fear of losing my job, I keep my opinions to myself, not wanting to alienate any of the people I am in ministry with who happen to disagree with me on any number of things.
That's the same nagging self that projects this fear onto people like President Obama, who I consistently deride for what I see as an all-too politically-motivated inclination to compromise (I'll blog about yesterday's same-sex marriage declaration later). Grow a backbone, brother!
But the reality is much deeper and truer than that - and far more complex than 140 characters could summarize.
1) I might, in fact, occasionally be wrong. (Actually, I often am.) This is shocking to me, as one who has always believed that I have all the right answers. But in all things - from theodicy (the reality of evil in a world held in the powerful hands of a loving God) to economics (what role does government play in assuring that all people have access to daily bread?) - I have discovered a capacity to grow and evolve in my thinking. Rabbi Michael Lerner once said that the key to religious leadership is to understand the difference between certainty and commitment. I can be 100% committed to a perspective (same-gender marriage, for example); but whenever we claim 100% certainty about anything, we are entering into dangerous territory. That's where fundamentalists rear their nasty heads (and lo, they are abundant on all sides of every issue). That's where political systems become intractable cesspools of unclear thinking lobbed with vile certainty like grenades across the aisle. Complexity of thought, intellectual honesty, and empathy are regarded as cardinal sins in the world of FoxNews and MSNBC (both of which I detest, btw); I'm convinced, however, that life is more complicated than Twitter allows.
2) Even when I am right - or I'm pretty close to being certain that I am - that does not negate the dignity and personhood of people with whom I disagree. And, more importantly, there are things about which I am virtually certain, but there are places and people among whom it is meaningless to be right. And to constantly reduce life and people to ideological checklists is to vastly oversimplify the beauty and brokenness of real human life. And - ! - one can actually learn from people who think differently, even if an opinion remains unchanged.
In the past years, especially since beginning a second call in a radically different context than my first one, my respect and admiration for the apostle Paul has grown by leaps and bounds. (I, like most "liberal" Christians, used to detest Paul, but straw-men are easy to detest. I'll probably write about that some other time...) Suffice it to say, here was a guy who knew what it was to struggle with doing and being good when it's so damn hard to follow through; who knew how to parse out what is essential from what is non-essential (and yet to fail to do so more often than not); who knew what bear to poke and which to leave alone (and yet he failed at that from time to time, too). Most importantly, he knew the limits of his (and all) human wisdom, and endeavored to know nothing except for Jesus Christ - and him crucified - as the one thing that holds this mysterious communion together, even when we disagree.
This struggle has become most clear to me in pastoral care. I was once privileged to preside over the funeral of a man who was at times crusty and crotchety, and at others gentle and thoughtful. He loved his wife and missed her dearly. He had struggled for success in a suburban context and had failed to achieve more often than he was able to admit. He agonized over the decision to stop receiving treatment for cancer, engaging both pastors with deep searching questions about whether this qualified as suicide or not - and whether God could forgive him. He went to Bible study, he loved devotional books, and he longed to receive Communion as often as he could. He loved his kids but missed them and thought they could visit more often than they did. He had great stories about his time in Europe in the service of his country. He was a good man - if there is such a thing.
He also selected his hospice care company on the sole criterion that they would never assign him a staff member who was a "person of color" (not the terminology he chose...). And he exclusively watched Fox News to learn about the world that existed beyond the confines of his assisted living facility, from which he could scarcely escape.
Based on that last paragraph, every fiber of my ideologically pure self would want nothing to do with this man. We would not attend dinner parties together. I would publicly make fun of his "simple" and "reactionary" worldview. This is not my kind of person.
But he was, by God's grace, exactly my kind of person. A sinner (like me) washed into the Body (like me) who struggled to live a holy and faithful life in a complex world (like me). Was he wrong? You bet - often. Have I ever been? You bet - often. But would my life be diminished had I never had the privilege of sharing Holy Communion with him - and joining his fellow saints and sinners in carrying him to the grave? Absolutely.
So this blog is an attempt to muse on the news with some measure of complexity and compassion - even though I will certainly be wrong 90% of the time (except, of course, when posting laudatory things about my children; they're every bit as wonderful as I say they are - and probably more so).
So that's a bit about me and what I'm up to.
Peace,
pj
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